


Hazy Ministrations (and a Heart to Call Home)

by chooburii



Category: TharnType the Series (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed, working through trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:55:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22277473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chooburii/pseuds/chooburii
Summary: Tharn has a nightmare of the night everything changed, but things don't exactly go the right way. Type is there to bring him back home.
Relationships: Tharn Kirigun/Type (TharnType)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 374





	Hazy Ministrations (and a Heart to Call Home)

**Author's Note:**

> TharnType the series took over my life for a good few weeks and i'm Big Sad that it's over. Here is a ficlet i wrote in like 2 days because i miss them.

It’s a dream, and he’s standing behind Techno, hand clamped over the other boy’s mouth, and he can see Lhong, the Lhong he thought he knew, _hurt_ his Type. _His_ Type. His _Type_ , who Tharn now knew why he had done what he had done. 

_(For you.)_

( _Everything I do, I do it for you._ )

When P’Thorn had caved, seeing him listless in the house, had told him of Type’s plan, why Type had broken up with him, he’d rushed over to campus. He’d spotted Techno and Champ, hunched over behind a car, filming something. Had gone to them, heard their hushed whispers. And then he’d seen Type, facing Lhong. Type, on the ground, as Lhong punched him. Type, shielding his face as Lhong grabbed the cinder block from the road and raised it over his head.

And this is where the dream diverges from reality. Tharn feels like he is encased in jelly, like his body is made entirely of lead. His vision tunnels, everything becoming way too dark, and he can do nothing but cry out Type’s name as Lhong strikes true.

The scene repeats like a record player on a loop, Lhong’s arms moving up, and then down, and then up, and then down, and then up, over and over again. Techno and Champ are gone, Lhong is gone, and Tharn is screaming, screaming Type’s name into an endless dark void.

He can finally move, he realizes, slowly, through the jellied fog of this nightmare, but that doesn’t stop him from sinking down next to Type’s unmoving form, shaking.

“Type,” he sobs, “Type,” Type doesn’t respond, doesn't move, doesn't breathe. Tharn collapses over his body, fists clenched in Type’s shirt, chokes into Type’s chest. “Type,” he cries again, over and over. “Type!” All of a sudden, he feels nothing, his hands grasping air and shadow, face pressed into mist. He looks down, frantically, but Type has vanished. There is only a block of asphalt at his side, stained red and cracked. Tharn screams, agonized, broken. Screams and screams because this is worse than Type breaking up with him, worse than Lhong’s betrayal, worse than everything he’s felt before. Type can’t be gone, he _can’t_ be gone he can’t be _gone_ -

“Tharn, Tharn, can you hear me?” Tharn's screaming chokes off at Type’s voice, his heart thudding in his chest, loud and angry. He looks around, but the world is suddenly getting bright, and he can’t see properly.

“Type?” He calls out, “Type, where are you?”

“I’m here, Tharn, I’m here, wake up, Tharn!”

Tharn screams again, calling Type’s name. The light is too bright, way too bright, and he shuts his eyes tight, feels tears stream down his face, and there’s a ringing in his ears, and it’s too loud, it's too heavy, it's too much, it’s too _much_.

A whisper in his head, a warm touch on his cheek. “Tharn.” Type’s voice caresses his skin. “Wake up.”

Tharn shoots awake, sitting up, chest heaving. His ears are still ringing, and the room feels 2-dimensional; he vaguely senses the body next to him on the bed before his own takes control, scrambling out of the sweat-drenched sheets and into the bathroom, just barely making it to the toilet before his stomach heaves and he tastes bile in the back of his throat. A part of him registers Type following him in, kneeling beside him, one hand placed gently on Tharn’s back, rubbing light circles into his skin. The other part of him _hurts_.

“Tharn, I’m here. It’s okay, I’m here.” Type murmurs, using his other hand to stroke Tharn’s bangs out of his face as he continues to lean over the toilet, spitting up the vestiges of the nightmare. 

Finally, Tharn breathes heavily, flushing the toilet and sitting down, leaning into Type’s touch. They sit for a moment, Type continuing to rub gentle circles into Tharn’s back, stroking Tharn’s hair at his forehead. After a minute, Type leans back, preparing to stand. Tharn’s heart clenches; Type pauses when Tharn’s hand shoots out to clutch his.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, taking Tharn’s hand and squeezing it. “I’ll be right back.” Tharn looks up at him, into his eyes, nods. His eyes follow Type as the other boy walks out for a minute, returning quickly, a glass of water in his hand. He presents it to Tharn, who takes it gratefully, and urges him to drink it while grabbing a small towel off of their rack, soaking it in some warm water. When sufficiently warm and wet, he sits back down on the floor in front of Tharn, taking the now-empty glass from him and setting it on the counter. 

“Tharn,” he says, “can you move?” Tharn shakes his head. His body still feels like it’s trying to swim through jelly. “Then,” Type says, hesitantly, eyebrows furrowed. “I’m going to take your shirt off, okay?.”

In the back of Tharn’s fogged mind, the normal Tharn chuckles, quips back that Type never needs to ask about that, but the Tharn on the floor of the bathroom just nods weakly, lifts his arms as Type gently pulls the shirt up and over his head. The sensation of the sweat-sticky fabric leaving his skin feels like a weight off his chest that he didn’t even know was there. The first steady stroke of the damp towel across his forehead coexists with the first deep breath he takes since waking up.

Type wipes away the sweat on his face, moves down to his neck, across his shoulders and down his back, and Tharn leans in, leans his face into the crook between Type’s neck and shoulder, breathes in. The foggy feeling in his head is slowly fading away, and his arms no longer feel so much like they’re encased in jelly. Type mutters “It’s okay,” and “I’m here” every so often, uses one hand to wipe down Tharn’s chest, the other to stroke gentle lines onto Tharn’s shoulder. Tharn finally moves his hands from where they are clenched at his side, stretches out, hooks them around Type’s elbows.

“I’m sorry,” He manages to croak out. Type smacks his shoulder lightly.

“Shut up, asshole.” _("It's not your fault" in the air, unsaid.)_

Tharn grins weakly, chuckles, and breathes in Type’s scent. Type shifts, putting the towel to the side, taking Tharn’s hands and squeezing them tightly. Tharn squeezes back.

“I’m still sorry.”

Type rubs his thumb over their entwined hands, shakes his head. “Can you stand?” Tharn thinks for a second, nods. “Come on then.”

Tharn wobbles to his feet, his legs feeling like they’re a little still stuck in dreamland. Type holds him as he brushes his teeth; they leave the towel, the shirt, and the glass in the bathroom, a task for tomorrow. When Tharn is done, they move slowly back into the main room, and Type doesn’t let go of him as he finds another shirt for Tharn to wear from the drawers. Their grip only breaks when Type throws a pair of boxers at Tharn, who catches them at the last minute. “Change in to these yourself.” He quips, looking away.

Tharn’s heartbeat thuds painfully when he feels Type’s touch leave his skin, but he complies, eyes never leaving Type’s form as he changes. Type, for his part, turns his attention to their bed, stripping the sweaty sheets away and changing them. Tharn, finished changing, tries to help, but Type waves him off, and Tharn’s heart thuds for another reason altogether.

Finally, the bed is made, and Type is quick to grab Tharn’s hand again, guiding him onto his side of the bed. He’s about to let go, to walk around to his own side of the bed, but Tharn shuffles slightly, pulling him down on top of him.

“Tharn, what the hell?” Type cries out, but Tharn only wraps his arms tightly around Type’s body, sticks his face back into Type’s neck. “Tharn, I’m too heavy.” Type tries to pull away, but freezes when Tharn places a kiss on his neck.

“Please,” Tharn murmurs, voice shaking. “Let me hold you.”

Type sighs, sinking against Tharn’s body. “Fine,” he relents. “Do what you want.” They lay like that, two hearts pressed against each other, and the sensation of just _being_ with Type finally brings feeling back fully into Tharn’s limbs. It’s quiet, the only sound coming from the _thud-thud_ of beating hearts. There’s still a ringing in his ears, but it’s faint. His mind settles. 

Two or twenty or two thousand minutes later, Tharn isn’t really sure, Type shuffles, putting his elbows on either side of Tharn’s head, and looks down at him. They’re nose to nose, Type’s fingers tangling in Tharn’s hair, and Tharn grins for the first time that night, his tight grasp on Type’s waist loosening just slightly. 

Type looks into Tharn’s eyes, worry drawing his eyebrows close together. “Are you okay?” He asks quietly.

Tharn nods, brushing their noses together. “I am now.”

Type doesn’t look convinced. “Do you want to talk about it?” Tharn sucks in a breath, fingers fisting in Type’s shirt, at the base of his spine. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to-” Type tries to say quickly, but Tharn tilts his head, places a soft kiss on the other’s jaw. 

“No, it’s okay.” He whispers into Type’s skin. “I do. Want to talk about it.” He rolls them, allowing Type to fall gently onto his side. Type shuffles around slightly, shifting the duvet to be over both of them, then allows himself to be pulled back into Tharn’s embrace. They are still face to face, nose to nose; one of Type’s arms is Tharn’s pillow, the other moving so that his hand rests on Tharn’s neck, fingers stroking the skin there gently. Tharn’s arms are still wrapped around Tharn’s waist, encasing him, and he tangles their legs together, craving that closeness he only ever desires with Type. He takes a deep breath, drawing strength from Type’s steady gaze, the warmth in his eyes.

“I was too late,” He says finally, and Type’s gentle ministrations falter. “P’Thorn told me too late, I got there too late.” Type sits up on his elbow, glaring down at Tharn.

“You asshole, Tharn, did you dream about that bastard?”

“Ty---pe---” Tharn complains, drawing out his name. “Of course not. I dreamt about you.” 

“Hm…” Type huffs, but settles back down. Tharn smiles at him, and Type pinches his neck. “Go on.”

“I was standing there, and everything felt so heavy.” Tharn’s smile drops, and his voice falters. “ I couldn’t get to you. Lho-he-I couldn’t stop him.”

“Tharn…”

“And then I was there, next to you, but Type, you weren’t...you weren’t-” Tharn’s breath hitches.

“Tharn!” Type grabs his face, cradles it between his fingers. “It’s okay, it’s over. I’m here.” He changes his position, grabs one of Tharn’s hands from his back, and places it on his chest, over his heart. “I’m here, I’m breathing.” Tharn shudders, lungs deflating. He presses his hand into Type’s chest, closes his eyes, feels Type’s heart beat. Type lets him, holds his hand there, thumb stroking his fingers softly. 

“I was alone. I was scared.” Tharn whispers, quiet, final. Type’s grip tightens, squeezing. “I was so scared.”

There’s an unspoken guilt, Tharn knows, that Type carries with him still from the whole situation, even though Tharn has long since forgiven him. He doesn’t say it as a weapon, and he knows Type knows that, but instead as a simple truth. He had been alone, and he had been scared. A quiet secret between two lovers, two parts of a whole. The end of the story of a bad dream.

Type breathes out, breathes in. Tugs Tharn into an embrace, firm and strong, warm and home. Tharn wraps his arms tightly around Type’s back, tucks his head into Type’s chest. Type’s heartbeat is strong, steady, and Tharn allows the constant drumming to drown out the faint ringing in his ears, realizes that the nightmare is, finally, fading away. 

“I’m here,” Type murmurs again, stroking Tharn’s hair. “I’m not going anywhere. Never again. You’re stuck with me forever.” Tharn chuckles faintly into Type’s embrace.

“I love you, Type.” He mumbles, low.

Type tugs on a strand of Tharn’s hair. “Asshole.” Tharn doesn’t respond. “Tharn?” Type peeks down at the man in his arms - asleep. He smiles to himself, tucks himself around Tharn. 

_(“I love you too”)_

Tharn, a lazy dream haze settling around him, cozy and warm, smiles. He does not have that nightmare again.


End file.
